


Dragonmark

by aureliu_s



Series: The Dragonborn Era [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dragonborn DLC, F/M, Forced Partners, I'm Sorry, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Multi, Other, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship Development, Smut, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, good ol uncle sanguine, he tries, heavy smut, inspired by a great comment someone left me but then i made it dark and depressing, miraak is protective now, sanguine is caring, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: "In order to get rid of it, you need to mark something else.""What, like piss on a tree?"Miraak felt his lips twist into a grin; Sanguine paused to laugh."If only it were that simple."----Hermaeus Mora won't let Miraak go that easily, and now Tharya is on his hitlist too. They enlist Sanguine to help them get rid of an odd mark left by Mora that makes them easy to track for Seekers, but Sanguine doesn't have any good news for them.kinda dark and rape-y with this one y'all, so please be careful while reading! there will be comfort & fluff eventually i promise





	1. The Dov

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends, this wonderful idea was left to me by a beautiful person who simply wanted me to write more Tharya/Miraak, but then i twisted it into a nightmare and here we are :) heavy smut/rape in an eventual chapter, so i'll be sure to warn any of those who want to skip it! fluff and recovery and relationship building afterwards :)

“Will you please let me look at that wound?”

Miraak grunted as he sat in the snow across from her, the fire crackling between them. After a near month of being on the road with her--she said they were going to Winterhold, but she  _wandered_ , she did not go directly to her destination--he was beginning to pick up on the finer points of her personality.

“No.”

The Last Dragonborn sighed, pulling her knapsack into her lap. She unbuckled the straps and began fishing through it—her provisions had already been low on Solstheim. Why hadn’t she stopped in Raven Rock before they left?

“I said no, _ahtlahzey_.”

“I heard.”

“Apparently not.”

She extracted a roll of bandages and a glass phial no larger than his finger.

“I heard, and am choosing to ignore you. Take your robe off.”

His back stiffened. There was no way in Oblivion he would be taking it off. No, not after thousands of years of having it torn off his body. Not after millennia of living on edge, wondering, waiting for Hermaeus Mora.

 

When he didn’t budge, she circled the fire and knelt in front of him.

He resisted the urge to push her back into the snow, or even Shout her down. The last thing he wanted was the Last Dragonborn _sitting between his legs_ to treat a wound. Gods, Hermaeus Mora must be laughing at him.

His attention pivoted when she began unrolling the bandage, draping one part of it over his knee.

“ _Hi fen ov zu’u_.”

“ _Zu’u dreh ni fen._ ”

“I’ll just sell you back to Hermaeus Mora, then. I’m the only thing keeping you safe.”

 

He didn’t reply. Some part of him knew she was right; she could just as easily throw him back into Apocrypha without him knowing until it was too late. Then he wouldn’t even be afforded the choice of taking off his robe.

She glanced at him a couple times, taking in his calculating features before speaking again.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You saw leverage and you used it, _ahtlahzey_.” He paused, gaze moving to the twin moons. “You would make a good Dragon Priest.”

She smiled, laughed, albeit uncertainly. When she looked up to him to see if he was actually _trying_ to be humorous, the twinkle in his black eyes was unmistakable.

 

Miraak raised his fingers to his collar. The smile that graced her lips had been oddly...comforting. He tugged the first layer free and shouldered it off, eyes remaining on the moon. The north was cold, but not as cold as Atmoran winters. This weather felt like the last days of a long spring to him. The belt clicked out of place in his hands, and he shrugged the first layer off.

Gods, how many years had it been since he’d removed his own clothes?

Next came the gauntlets, falling one atop the other into the snow beside him. Their pinecone-like decorations rattled against each other. The second shirt was tied at the chest and stomach, but it didn’t matter much. Only the outer layer of his robes had been mended on Solstheim--he still didn’t know by who--and there was a gaping hole left in the fabric. It was troublesome getting it off over her prodding fingers, but somehow he managed to roll it far enough off his shoulders.

 

He watched as her eyes fell in mild shock to the three-pronged scar across his chest, dark like the one splitting his eyebrow and the other adorning the bridge of his nose. For a mere second, she reached out to feel it, spreading her fingers to drag them down each line of scar tissue. Beneath her touch, his _dov_ roared to life.  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” Miraak growled, catching her wrist. She murmured an apology before setting to work. Her fingers were wetted with something thick like honey, cool to the touch. Tharya had healed him to some extent on Apocrypha, and no doubt tended the tentacle wound on the boat trip from Solstheim (most of which he still had no memory of), but it hadn’t gone away. Daedric influence, no doubt. He didn’t understand why she didn’t simply use her magicka, but he didn’t bother asking.

 

Something in his chest grew warm, the three-legged scar tingling where her fingers had been. Something made him relax under the feeling of her hands. Something had made his _dov_ burst into being and quiet again. For the first time since he could remember, something felt right. He lingered on the exact moment her skin met his, the gravity that seemed to be pulling him ever downwards miraculously lifted. Gone, with a single touch. His _dov_ roared again, something melodic, something intended. But that made no sense--he listened. It sang. _He sang_. No sense, still, unless it was singing to her, he was singing to her, _for her_ , hoping maybe in the great darkness there was a light, a light cast by _ahtlahzey,_ **_his_ ** _ahtlahzey-_ -

“Miraak.”

 

And just like that, it was gone. His eyes fell open, unaware he had ever closed them.

“Are you alright?” There was cloth wrapped snugly around his middle, some kind of paste on his wound. Confusion crossed her eyes. For a moment, he thought maybe she’d felt something too.

 

But no—this was the Last Dragonborn, and though she may be _ahtlahzey_ her power was not a fraction of his. Miraak doubted she’d ever been in touch with her _dov_.

“ _Los hi drehlaan?_ ” He grunted in reply. Fingers grasped his robes and pulled each layer back on with practiced speed. Tharya retreated to her side of the fire, her gaze hardly ever leaving him. The moons dragged their feet across the blanket of stars.  
“We’ll reach Winterhold by tomorrow afternoon,” she murmured, pulling her staff-turned-spear into her lap. “You should get some rest.” _Winterhold_. She hadn’t said much about this place, but he only hoped it was better than the disappointment of Windhelm. “ _Pruzah vulon,_ bastard.”

Normally he would’ve returned the insult. Now, though, he merely scoffed.  
“ _Pruzah vulon, ahtlahzey_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like the idea of miraak being a lot more in touch with his dov/dragon side once getting out of apocrypha, with the possibility that hermaeus mora's influence suppressed it somehow? idk. as usual, comments and kudos are lovely, and hopefully chapter two and more exciting stuff soon!
> 
> Hi fen ov zu’u - you have to trust me  
> Zu’u dreh ni fen - I don’t have to  
> pruzah vulon - good night  
> los hi drehlaan? - are you done?


	2. Cloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i will admit this piece isn't my best writing, but junior year is playing kickball with my brain so :( there may be some minor edits and revisions as we go along and hopefully my writing gets better, but until then pls bare with me :) and feel free to leave comments! i love reading them and replying to you all!

Winterhold was a dreary little town. Tharya named buildings as they passed along the road. The tavern, the Jarl’s house, the merchant’s shack. He counted more ruins than standing homes.

“ _Fos koros wah daar golt, ahtlahzey_?”

She looked back at him, but didn’t reply. People gave him glaring looks; each new face he saw was already trained on him, and on the Last Dragonborn. The woman in the tavern dress eyed the College and then the pair crossing through the ruined town.

“Filthy cowards!”

His hand went immediately to his staff, its thick wood familiar in his grip. Likewise, Tharya’s hand went to his arm and yanked him back into place behind her.

“ _Bein miil_ -”

“Let her be.” She said quietly, fist curling into the fabric of his sleeve. “These people hate the College.” She dragged him like a child towards the huge stone building. He wrenched his sleeve away, eyes falling to the College of Winterhold.

 

It was smaller than he’d imagined, definitely a _college_ and not an _academy_. It stood high above the rest of the town, a towering building of stone. Blue-hued windows gazed down like prying eyes. A narrow bridge of the same pallid grey was all that was offered to cross a gaping chasm between the town and the College. He had no fear of such heights, but the drop was almost certainly fatal. And if it wasn’t, the frigid waters were.

Miraak trailed behind the Last Dragonborn, reluctant to make himself look like a _follower_. He walked with his staff in one hand, fingers wrapped around his sword. They walked over the great carved eye and beneath a boxy arch, the wind whipping and pulling at their robes. Winterhold was new to him—it hadn’t existed when the Cult migrated to Skyrim. The statue in the courtyard, however, was familiar.

 

“Shalidor.” He murmured to himself, stopping at the great statue. Hermaeus Mora had told him of Shalidor’s work in the First Era, the beginning of his permanent residence at Apocrypha. He had even brought Miraak the books as they were produced, each an exact replica of the one Shalidor had completed moments before. Gods, the Prince had even assisted him in perfecting Shalidor’s Mirror. No wonder he’d been imprisoned there so long.

Tharya was looking back to him, a question in her head but not on her lips. A bitter breeze swept through the courtyard. Shalidor’s sculpted robes were the only to remain still against the wind. With minute hesitance in his step, Miraak trailed her inside.

 

* * *

 

 

“Archmage!”

Tharya wanted nothing more than to groan, or even roll her eyes, but Faralda’s voice found her conjuring a smile to her face. The Altmer stood from the table, with a smug look of _I told you so_ cast at everyone she passed. Tolfdir sighed.

“Archmage, I am absolutely _delighted_ at your return. The others were beginning to doubt,” she made a flourishing gesture to the banquet table of people behind her. Everyone looked equally as exhausted with Faralda’s presence. “I, however, kept faith. You must be hungry, archmage, come sit with us.”

“I need a bath,” she mumbled under her breath.  
“A bath! Certainly. Shall I run one for you?”

There was a brief pause.  
“Please, Faralda. And, some robes for my--my friend.”

The Altmer took one doubtful look at him and stalked off. Tharya could’ve sworn every pair of lips took in a breath of fresh air, beyond jubilant the Elven woman hadn’t sucked all the air out of the room with her.

“Who is this friend?” A new figure approached, not nearly as tall as the previous. Her tone held an edge of accusation, laced with defensiveness.  
“Mirabelle,” she smiled, looking back to Miraak. Divines, how could she explain him? A freakishly tall, dark-skinned Nord with black eyes and robes that resembled ancient parchment more than they did cloth, a five o’clock shadow claiming his jawline. Two parallel scars over his nose, another splitting his eyebrow, a sword seemingly made of tentacles--the list went on.  
“This is Teldryn Sero, a new friend of mine. Teldryn, the College.”

Miraak’s weight shifted from one foot to another, before he nodded his acknowledgement.  
“ _Drem yol lok._ ”

His voice was still deep and sometimes gravelly, but it no longer boomed and echoed in her head. She knew he had noticed it, too. He spoke as little as possible and when he did, it was over-enunciated. He was trying to compensate; no longer did he have power behind his voice, no longer did he speak with authority.  
“Common Tongue?”  
“Very little,” Tharya said, eyeing each seated member. Unsurprisingly, not one of them seemed to recognize Dovahzul. “I’m sure we can speak tomorrow. It’s been a longer road than I ever intended.”

 

She met Faralda on the stairs, who tried once again to suffocate her in praise and boosts of her own character. The door to the archmage’s chambers was heavier than she remembered, closed louder, harder to lock. Nevertheless, she went through the steps.

Miraak stood silently in the center of the room, reminding himself of what a _real_ enclosed living space looked like. As far as he could tell, the room was circular, and in the center there was a small, lush garden with hovering magelights. Behind that was a wall.  
“You can have the bed,” the Last Dragonborn said from behind. She walked—staggered, really—past him, dropping her knapsack and staff-turned-spear against the wall. He regarded the staff for a moment. It still shone, albeit dimly. Briefly he wondered about her sword, Dawnbreaker had it been? They had left it in Apocrypha, but it was a relic of another Daedric Prince. Perhaps Hermaeus Mora would return it. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Tharya disappeared behind the wall, leaving the Dragon Priest to his thoughts.

 

He set down his staff and sword as well, leaning them against the nearby table. _Apocrypha._ Something in him wanted to think about recent events, but another part of him wanted to do anything but that. Not Apocrypha, not Hermaeus Mora, not the campfire, not the fact that his _dov_ had been more awake in the past few days than it had been in centuries. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt it roar so fiercesomely. Why was it her who had elicited that?

He slowly placed a hand over his chest, listening for it. Quiet, for now. Still. There was no fire in his veins or roar to echo in the chambers of his heart. Memories of before he had found the Black Book flowed back to him; he had never done a thing without consulting his gut, even as a child. _Child._ He hardly remembered being a child, now. Never quite sure of what to call it, but it was something more than instinct. Like a supplementary brain, supporting or overruling decisions the first one made. It wasn’t until much later he’d learn about his _dov_ , the second soul. And then, like a _ruth mey_ , he’d forgotten it. For thousands of years, it lay dormant, forced into hibernation.

 

There was robes folded on the table, he guessed for him. Dark, spiraling mahogany threads on the chest. Something inside him itched to put them on, get out of the things he’d nearly died in. Miraak glanced over his shoulder before placing a hand gingerly against the cloth. Soft, warm. Smooth. Plush, made from something thick. He gathered it in his hands and returned to the illuminated garden, lowering himself to sit on the cold steps. Cloth. He ran his thumbs over it. _Cloth._ Not the frayed pages of a book, and not the slimy smooth of a tentacle. Useful, abundant, warm, crisp. Smelling of mountain air and magicka.

 

Cloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read in someone's tumblr headcanons that miraak barely remembers the textures of most things so he just goes around touching stuff when no one is looking :0
> 
> fos koros wah daar golt, ahtlahzey? - what happened to this place, ahtlahzey?  
> bein miil - foolish woman  
> drem yol lok - peace fire sky (form of greeting)  
> ruth mey - damn fool


	3. The Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i have so much muse for the dragon priest au for some reason? also miraak in college robes that are tight around the arms/chest is my new aesthetic someone draw it

“I’m glad Faralda kept this place up. I missed it.”

Her voice circled him, stopping by his side, just where he could see her in his peripheral. She had changed from her archmage robes. He dropped the clothes into his lap but remained silent. Even in such little time, he had grown fond of the little garden carved out of the archmage’s quarters. Something about it was...soothing. It made the previous centuries fade into a dream.

It was the only place in the College he felt relaxed thus far. From a plane of Oblivion made up of books, to a magical school surrounded by books. Hermaeus Mora had ruined even the thought of looking at a volume or tome; he had read for centuries and gained immense power from it, but now the mere image of a book made his skin crawl. Each time one opened, he debated whether or not tentacles would shoot from the spine and envelop him, drag him back to Apocrypha for the rest of eternity.

  
She gestured to the robes in his lap. “Do they fit? Faralda said they were from an Orc initiate who seemed about your size.” He supposed that was supposed to make him feel better, or earn some kind of response. When he gave none, she went on. “I have something for you.” Tharya said, moving in front of him to sit in the unoccupied space on the stairs beside him. Miraak let his shoulders bristle at her presence--she was too familiar for his liking. Strangely enough, his _dov_ no longer wanted to consume her soul entirely. No--now it called out to her. Again.

He shifted away.

“A couple things, actually,” she gave a weak chuckle. “First, this.” She handed over three bandage rolls and two glass bottles no taller than his index finger. He noted her hands were warm and ever so slightly pruned--so she had finally taken her bath. “For your...for Mora’s wound. Since you don’t want me doing it.” His jaw tightened. He took them without a word, unsure if he was grateful or not. The next thing on her lap was roughly the size of a large plate, wrapped in cloth and tied with fraying twine. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want this, but it belongs to you.” She extended it to him, but hesitated in letting him take it.

He had worn gloves for so long, the feeling of roughspun cloth had been lost to him. It was coarse and prickly against his fingers. Not soft or warm like the robes; less welcoming, but more practical. Another part of reality he’d forgotten.

 

With care, he undid the twine knot and peeled the cloth away.

His hands froze mid air.

 

Tharya watched him intently, watched the way his jaw seemed to clench and his forearms went tense. Neloth had been the one who found them lying in the ash, brought them back from the seeming dead in his tower. Neloth had held onto the mask--maybe too passionately, it had taken some convincing to get it off his hands--but she doubted Miraak remembered much of it. He had been halfway between conscious and unconscious the whole time, speaking hazy words to her in dovahzul. The first time he opened his eyes had been on the boat. The first time he spoke to her was on the steps of Windhelm. Since then, next to nothing.

 

The Dragon Priest lifted his mask into the light, running his fingers lightly over each groove, each miniscule scrape it had suffered over the years. He remembered Vahlok tearing it from his face, saying he was unworthy of it, letting it fall into the snow. He remembered wheezing, his own blood pouring from his lips, Vahlok pushing his face into the ground below. He distinctly remembered the feel of the other priest’s boot on his cheek, the taste of dirt in his mouth. He remembered being encased by tentacles, the look on Vahlok’s face as he was sucked in Apocrypha.

No, he didn’t truly want it, but some part of him refused to get rid of it.  
“ _Kogaan_ ,” he said quietly, hardly above a murmur. The mask stared back at him, somehow still full of mocking contentedness.   
“You hadn’t said anything about it, so I assumed...” her sentence trailed off, remained unfinished. He could easily guess at what she had assumed. The Last Dragonborn stood, leaving him and his mask alone in the garden.

 

For a moment he debated whether he should break the mask in half over his knee or throw it into the corner. He did neither. Miraak gathered everything she’d given him and stood, making his way cautiously around the half wall. She was nowhere to be seen, but the door to a connecting room was propped open. He ventured inside. She wasn’t there, either, to his mild disappointment, but there was something almost better: a bath.

 

He knew he probably _shouldn’t_ and _what if she went looking for him_ but he pushed it aside; the Last Dragonborn had no great love for him, a self-righteous bastard who had locked himself away in servitude to a Daedric Prince for the past four thousand years. To Oblivion with it all, there was a bath in front of him and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been clean.

Taking the robes off was a process all over again. Hesitant, despite the fact he was in a dark room by himself, with only a shaft of moonlight illuminating the chamber down the middle. The more clothes he dropped to the floor the more threatening the water seemed. It took patience to remind himself that it wasn’t one the pitch black pits in Apocrypha. It took courage to dismiss the possibility of dark tentacles shooting out of the water and dragging him back. It took shame to admit that he, Miraak, First Mage of the Cult, Dragon Priest, and First Dragonborn, was scared of a tub of water.

His robes crumpled like ancient paper to the floor, and he set the College ones down beside them. The bathtub was not made for six-foot-eight Atmoran men, but for once in his life he didn’t mind having to crunch up. He cupped his hands beneath the water and let it drain onto his hair, something the _vahdins do vulon_ used to do. Now, if there was only one to rub his shoulders and one to throw petals in the water, then he’d truly be living as if nothing changed.

 

He’d only had three.. _.concubines_ , he thought to himself, _that’s the word for them now._ Or one of them. Ahzidal, in all his madness, had gone through too many to count in one season. Morokei, supposedly, was celibate. _Lok, Peyt, Shul._ Sky, flower, sun. Vahlok, the one he’d considered a brother for so long, had been quick to offer them up as tribute when winter came, one for Alduin, one for Paarthurnax, and another for Odahviing.

Miraak tried to cut the thought before it formed, but he could still remember their screams. Lok and Peyt had screamed specifically for _him_ , _his_ name, as if he’d cast some flashy spell and carry them away, back to the relative safety of his presence. Save them. A buried part of him had desperately wanted to. But Shul, she had screamed at Odahviing, pounding his nose with her pale fists until her bones were broken and her blood was on the ground, her voice silenced just like the others. Paarthurnax had eyed him warily down the landscape of his snout, watching for some kind of reaction. There was none. He had mastered the stoic expression long before his imprisonment with Hermaeus Mora demanded it. Only the curling of his toes inside his boots, and the raging _dov_ inside.

He blinked. Hot water stirred as he sat up again. Clearing his mind became a priority. _Water._ Warm, liquid, comforting. _Ceramic_. Smooth, cool, white, hard. The screeching of the door caught his attention. Another figure entered the room.

_Damn._

Eyes followed the Last Dragonborn’s figure in the darkness, fists tightening. _Dov_ stirring, Miraak very carefully let out a breath he wasn’t entirely aware he’d been holding. She didn’t know he was here, and he preferred to keep it that way. She was humming something to herself, standing just barely in the wide shaft of moonlight that split the room. His next breath caught in his chest when her robes hit the floor, but it only remained there when the mark on her shoulder came into view. Tharya lifted her arms to undo the braid of her gold-tinted hair, scrunching the skin, but he could still see it clearer than day.

 

A rectangular-shaped iris, in a half-lidded eye, surrounded by a black smoke.

 

_Hermaeus Mora._

  


Miraak stayed long after she walked out, scrubbing the last of Apocrypha out of his hair, letting water roll down his spine, debating in his head whether or not to shave the short beard he’d grown. Each time his mind wandered back to the strange mark, the ever-watchful eye that had been painted on her back. He wondered if she even knew it was there, or if Hermaeus Mora had marked her.

 

Or, if she was working for him.

 

His _dov_ seemed furious that he would even think that, so he pushed it to the back of his mind and managed to get into the college robes. They fit, but were tight around his shoulders. No surprise. He had no idea where the Last Dragonborn had situated herself, but the bed was empty. _Mey._ Her pointless selflessness would get her nothing but a sore back. Regardless, he tried to remind himself of the motions of _getting into a bed_. The mattress was soft, almost uncomfortably so. Something he wasn’t used to. The mark haunted him; her skin haunted him, the image of the fabric falling off her body, the warmth of her fingers when she handed him his mask.

 

_You are never truly gone, Miraak._

 

He stiffened.

 

_Never truly beyond me..._

 

That voice was all too recognizable. He tried to convince himself it was just his imagination. Hermaeus Mora wasn’t here; Tharya had dragged him out of Apocrypha. She had said herself, _I’m the only thing keeping you safe._ He was stupid to believe it.

 

_Never truly out of my sight..._

 

The tension seeped back into his muscles, shoulders bunching up again. Before he could stop himself, he cursed aloud, the dovahzul rolling off his tongue with an edge.

 

_You will return sooner than you think._

 

The next sound he heard was a glass-shattering scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vahdins do vulon - there's no word for concubine in dovahzul so i kinda made one up? this literally means "maidens of night" so idk  
> kogaan - literally means "blessings" or "thanks"; like drem yol lok it's an expression, but of gratitude  
> mey - fool


	4. Uncle Sanguine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn, i love writing sanguine :)

He threw the blankets off and tumbled out of the bed, taking long strides to his sword. There used to be an open eye on the handle, one of Mora’s eyes, with a rectangular iris, but now it was closed.  
“What was that?”

Tharya emerged from the darkness, wherever she had found a chair or bedroll to sleep in, pulling on her robes.

“ _Mu los do wah siiv nii, ahtlahzey_.”

He was first out the door, making his way down the twisting flight of claustrophobic stairs. The air in the antechamber crackled with magic. His eyes immediately fell to the handful of mages who seemed to be struggling to maintain a paralysis spell, and the floating mass between them. Hairy, with skin-colored tentacles, the face akin to his mask.

A Seeker.

 

The nerves in his left shoulder lit on fire, enveloping his sword arm in pain. The Last Dragonborn shouldered by him, the spear tip of her staff glowing bright.

The Seeker hovered just above his height, motionless between the four mages.

“You!” A short woman—a Breton, he guessed—barked at him, tearing her eyes away from the Seeker for only a second. “Stand back! Don’t interfere!”

He would’ve scoffed and brushed them all aside if it weren’t for the current circumstances. A few Fourth Era mages who could barely hold a Seeker, telling him to stand back? Foolish. Dragon Priest, First Mage to the Cult, First Dragonborn, dragonslayer, the list went on.

Miraak readjusted his grip on his sword and stalked forward.

“I said stay back!” The woman’s voice held surprising conviction for such small stature, but he ignored it.

With a gesture of his hand, a glyph materialized on the floor. Every hair on the Seeker stopped moving. Each of the four mages stumbled as if they had been pushed; their magic was broken by his.

“You are interfering in-“

“Mirabelle!”

He recognized the voice as belonging to the Last Dragonborn, but didn’t bother to turn. The Breton woman looked furious but cast her gaze instead on the archmage at the foot of the stairs.

“ _Drey Hermaeus Mora hi_?” Miraak asked slowly, watched as the Seeker tried to move towards him. So long as his hand remained a fist, the glyph would not give. “ _Zu’u los ni ok zaam_.”

 

The Seeker made no reply. He had heard them speak on rare occasions, but for the majority of time they were silent, floating from bookcase to bookcase without making a sound.

His sword went deep into the creature’s layers, eliciting a sickening squelch. He could feel the Seeker’s body slump on the blade.

“Miraaaaak...”

It was a whisper that crawled through the hall, reaching every ear like a foul stench reaches every nose. It devoured the momentary confidence he had shored himself up with.

Somehow, somewhere, Hermaeus Mora knew where he was.

“ _Ahtlahzey_.”

“Burn this thing,” Tharya was saying, gesturing to the Seeker, still impaled. “Make sure there’s no more in the rest of the College. Everyone stays in their rooms-“

“ _Ahtlahzey_.”

She turned to him, a million questions in her eyes.

“I need to speak with you.”

 

The moment the door closed, she rounded on him.  
“That was a Seeker. How did it get in here?”  
“You think it is my fault, _ahtlahzey?_ ” He scoffed, adjusting the grip on his sword. “You should tend to your own before you make accusations.”  
“Oh, you think I invited the Seeker here? Left the door open for them?” She stalked forward, spear tip aimed upwards.  
“You did.”  
“And how exactly do you think I managed that? I’ve been around your arrogant ass all day.”  
“Have you not seen the mark?”

Her voice halted in her throat. So she didn’t know about it, which meant she couldn't be working for Mora. That, at least, was a tiny relief. He motioned for her to turn around, and then pressed a finger against the mark hidden beneath her clothing. She recoiled.

“What was that?” She demanded, the tip menacingly close to his jawline. He leaned in, tasting her rage.

“Your mark. Do not say you didn’t see it.”

“I haven’t been around a mirror in a month,” she snapped back. “What’s this thing look like? Some kind of black tattoo, with an eye in the middle?”

He paused. Suddenly her features shifted as recognition crossed his face, and slid onto hers. He hadn’t realized his _dov_ was screeching until they both fell quiet. So...she knew about it? Somehow?

“Yes.”

“Then you have one too.” Now her tone wasn’t accusatory, but rather informative. Her countenance twisted into mild concern.

Suddenly the pain in his shoulder made sense. It had only erupted when he was in the same room as the Seeker, and had drained away when he took its life. _Gods, please don’t bring me back there. Akatosh, your firstborn-_

“Finally! I was wondering when you’d figure it out. It was painful to watch, really.”  
He bristled first and rounded on the new voice. There was only one thing that made his spine tingle like that: Daedra.  
“ _Dukaan Deyra-”_

“I don’t know what that means,” Miraak snatched the glowing staff out of Tharya’s hand, wrestling against her as she held him back, “but it doesn’t sound very nice.”

 

The Last Dragonborn’s arms strapped around his middle and his shoulder. Despite the white-knuckled grip on the staff with its near blinding glow, he had no power to throw it. She was stronger than she looked, even standing a foot below him. There was a hint of a slur on every word, a pause after some, almost like he was persistently drunk.  
“Please, o champion mine, control your guard dog.” The red and black-faced Daedra groaned, lifting himself off the wall. Miraak’s lips opened to protest.  
“He _isn’t_ a guard dog,” she beat him to it. Had she defended him so quickly? His muscles fell into relaxation. She patted his chest and spared him a glance, moving towards the Daedra. “What are you doing here, Sanguine?” Miraak shifted backwards. Sanguine was a name he’d heard before. Never seen the Prince himself, but Mora had spoken of him.

 

The staff remained in his hand, spear tip glowing brightly against his face. He watched their conversation with intent interest, but for some reason the words were lost to his ears. His _dov_ had started up again, crooning for the staff. Her presence emanated from it, from all the nights on Solstheim sleeping with it tucked to her chest. Against his better judgement, he inhaled deeply. Fresh snow and the smokiness of fire. Where had that come from? Where had he smelled it before?

The Dragonborn, of course. Dragging her out of Apocrypha, slinging her beaten body over his shoulder like a roughspun sack. He hadn’t paid attention to it then--apparently his _dov_ had--but it came flooding back. There was some kind of reassurance in holding her staff, but it wasn’t quite enough for his _dov._ It sang a _lovaas_ he hadn’t heard in millennia, or even truly once before. He had itched for a particular touch before but never a particular presence.

 

“Miraak?” His eyes slowly climbed from the staff to Sanguine and Tharya, looking at him rather expectantly. “What do you say?”

“ _Do_?”  
“Show us your mark.” Sanguine repeated, his voice holding a minor edge. Miraak stiffened but looked to Tharya, who gave a minute nod.

_If you want to._

 

Her voice echoed in his head and he watched shock cross her face. Gods, she truly didn’t know much about being Dragonborn. It was the first time one age had birthed two, but thought connections weren’t entirely unheard of. A mage of his caliber--and possibly of hers--had been known to establish such connections. Their dragonblood would only enhance it.

He tugged at the lacing around his collar and curled his fists into the fabric, turning as he pulled it off over his head.

Sanguine gave a low whistle that made his jaw tighten; he was well aware of the pink scars that fell into the creases of his shoulder blades and melded with the skin down his sides. Her fingertips landed gently on his sides, oddly careful. She didn’t avoid these scars as she had the one on his chest, but it was impossible to think she didn’t see them.

“You’re the one who rebelled,” Sanguine said softly, “one of those Dragon Priests?”

Miraak let his head fall, eyes trained on the stone beneath his boots. _The one who rebelled._

“ _Geh._ ”  

The Daedric Prince’s dull nails were next to touch his skin, thumbing over the mark that was apparently on his shoulder. He should’ve known—Mora would never let him be, never let him go, never let him out of his sight. The Last Dragonborn had pulled him out of his prison, but he would never truly be free.

 

The trio of them settled into silence, Tharya’s hands still holding his sides. Undoubtedly she could feel the stifled anger in his breathing. Sanguine spoke first.

“They’re called dragonmarks. No one’s completely sure, but they speculate it’s because they burn when the marked come into close contact with the creator. Or, some element of them. It would explain how the Seekers found you—they were drawn to Mora’s power.”

“Seekers? Plural?”

Sanguine shifted.

“There were more in the town below.”

Her hands curled into fists against his skin.

“Are they gone?”

“Guards killed them off pretty quickly.” Her guilt and frustration seeped into the air around them, a dense silence joining it. _These people hate the College_ had been some of her first words to him in Winterhold. No doubt they would blame it for the attack.

 

_It is not your fault, ahtlahzey._

 

Tharya stiffened at his voice in her head but said nothing of it.

“We need to get rid of these marks,” Sanguine stated, as if it were that easy. “Let me check the Grove. If it’s safe, I can get rid of it there.”

“Sanguine?” The Daedra turned at her voice.  
“Yes, champion mine?”  
“How do you get rid of these?” Miraak had been considering asking himself; he had heard of his fair share of curses and spells, but this one eluded him.  
“In order to get rid of it, you need to mark something else.” Sanguine shrugged.  
“What, like piss on a tree?” The Prince laughed; Miraak felt his lips twist into a grin for the first time in a long, long time.  
“If only it were that simple.”  
And his presence vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mu los do wah siiv nii - we are about to find out  
> drey hermaeus more hi? - did hermaeus mora send you?  
> zu'u los ni ok zaam - i am not his slave  
> dukaan deyra - literally means "dishonorable daedra" but can be interpreted as "filthy/foul daedra"  
> lovaas - song  
> do? - about?  
> geh - yes


	5. The Misty Grove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY IMPORTANT NOTES AT THE END
> 
> also the next chapter will be the dark rapey chapter so please don't read it if you're uncomfortable/have a bad emotional connection to that sort of thing! stay safe! :)  
> also super tired so didn't fully proofread this chapter, expect minor revisions

The next thing he felt was magic surrounding him, seeping into his muscles. Flowing from her fingertips into him, brushing his soul. Each scar on his body seemed to light on fire.

_She was reading him._

It was a rare spell to have performed, and no one had truly given it a name, but most referred to it as _reading_. Reading someone through the scars they bore, delving into the origin of the mark and the memories connected to it. She was extremely focused on him. The mark that hugged his shoulder blade--he remembered it vividly. A dragon claw that had sunk through him entirely, just barely missing his bones. The last dragon he had killed before his temple was razed to the ground and Vahlok fought him in the ashes. A healing spell had stitched his muscles and tendons and skin back together but the pain remained well into his imprisonment in Apocrypha. It left a jagged pink line that followed the curve of his shoulder-

 

Before she could go any further, he twisted around and grabbed her wrist.

 _Who taught you that, ahtlahzey?_ His own voice rung in his head just as surely as it rung in hers.  
“Who taught **you** that, _mul gein_?”

 _Mul gein?_ Strong one? From her?

“Morokei,” Miraak replied, mind lingering in the way she spoke dovahzul. Crisp and clear. Not ultimately flowing but good enough. It was the first time she’d spoken in dovahzul to him—it was strangely comforting. “He was Lord of Solstheim before I was. He taught me a great deal.” His grip loosened on her wrist but didn’t give way. Her palm lingered above his chest. “I did not think any Fourth Era mages capable of such a spell.”

“The previous archmage was a very knowledgeable man,” she smiled briefly. “He taught me a great deal.” Her eyes sparkled at his recycled words now used against him. It struck him that they’d conversed the most in the past half hour than they had in the past two weeks. And it had felt strangely right. He was growing tired of saying that to himself, but it was the only way to describe... _her_.

 

Miraak held her gaze for a moment before gingerly pressing her palm to his chest.  
“Tell me what you see, _ahtlahzey_.”

He watched her face contort for a moment, eyes closed, head jolting to the right as if startled.  
“Dragonfire.” Again she centered herself, pressing a little harder against the scar. “Solstheim--your temple. Burning.” His _dov_ began to reel. “Skeletons, at least twenty of them. Their souls gone. You...watching it burn.”

 _The fire reflected in his eyes, all color buried under the raging orange of the flames._ _No scar across his nose, none to split his eyebrow._

 

“One dragon who disappears into the smoke returns and grabs you. You fight him off but...a battle. The ground is scorched, your temple collapses. He is yours until he reaches out.” Without knowing what he was doing, his fingers curled down between hers.

_Robes torn, his staff is his last resort. Face covered in soot and dust, lip busted. The dragon raises its head to the sky and screeches, bringing down a single claw with one fell swoop. Falling. The ground catches him. Wings take to the sky._

 

Her hand fisted below his and with a gasp, her head snapped up.  
“That’s Paarthurnax.”

 

His eyes flew open. Paarthurnax.  
“How do you know that name?” He meant it to have more conviction but it comes out soft, hoarse even.  
“He’s alive. He...he taught me a great deal.” Now there is no mischief in her countenance at that phrase, no poke of humor. She recognized Paarthurnax, and saw him nearly claw a man in half, reduce a temple to ash. Had he changed? Teaching mortals instead of enslaving them? Unlikely.

They stood there for a long moment, recapturing the steady breathing they didn’t know they lost, inhaling each other’s air. His _dov_ whined for her presence to return.  
“These are different,” her fingers captured his chin and tilted his head down to hers. Cool fingers brushed over the scar splitting his eyebrow, trailing down to the bridge of his nose. “Vahlok gave you these.”

“ _Aan ofan._ ” He murmured, trying his hardest to not push his face into her palm like a lapdog. She scoffed quietly.  
“Some gift.”  
  
“This is touching, really. My teeth ache.”

They jolted in unison, immediately disconnecting from each other. Miraak made some kind of half-disgusted grunt at Sanguine, pulling his robes on again. It felt good to have clothes covering him, but her touch lingered like it always did. “But we have to get rid of these marks.”

Tharya found her staff, twirling it experimentally on her fingers before the spear tip planted on the floor.

“Can you get rid of them, then?”

He blinked and missed it.

“Of course I can.”

 

The world around them had somehow gone from dimly-lit, circular stone room to hazy forest, a path of worn stones stretching out beyond his boots. Trees swayed high, bushes crowded low. Flowers peeked through. Racing streaks of brilliant red shot through the darkening sky. In the distance, laughter and the metallic clank of tankards rose above the general hum of night. There was no way this was a plane of Oblivion.  
“I suppose you were expecting another slimy tar-pit infested library,” Sanguine snorted, noting the Dragon Priest’s wonder. “I like to think this is the better side of Oblivion. If not the best.” The Daedra turned away and started down the path.

“The Misty Grove, he calls it.” Tharya fell into step beside him, taking in the scenery. “One little corner of his plane of Oblivion.”

 

Gods, even the air smelled fresh. They crossed over a murmuring brook via a creaky wooden bridge. Trees whispered their secrets in the gentle breeze. Oblivion had never looked so enticing. There was no weather in Apocrypha; only the damp air, the scent of ancient books, the slickness of the water, and the threat of impending doom. And occasionally, the feel of sweaty limbs encasing your neck.

“Do you remember the color of your eyes?” It was an odd question, but Miraak shook his head. “Maybe Sanguine can get rid of the black.”

From ahead of them, a call of “of course I can” rose.  
“I’m sure we could resurrect Vahlok, he’ll tell you.”

 

There was a brief pause--dear god, that had been a terrible joke. The moment it left his lips he wanted to retract it. Tharya glanced to him quizzically before her mouth formed a smile.

“And then kill us both? No thanks.”

Sanguine brought them into a small clearing with the moon directly overhead. The stones disappeared and then reappeared across the grove, leading away and through the trees.  
“Gods--please put that thing out,” he grumbled, shielding his eyes from the spear. Tharya rolled her eyes but flipped the weapon, shiny tip pointing downwards. “Whatever you did to it, it hurts.”  
“I blessed it.” Miraak said.  
“Of course. It reeks of blessing.” The Daedric Prince clapped his hands together. “The Grove should be safe. I can’t make any promises--I don’t know if Mora knows you’re here, but I’m fairly convinced he can’t get to you.” _Fairly convinced_ didn’t have enough reinforcement behind it.  
“So how do we get rid of these damn things?” The Last Dragonborn tapped her fingers against her staff.  
“Right. This is the part you may not like as much.” He sighed. “You have to mark something else. These things can’t be destroyed, only transferred. You’re both Dragonborn, both strong mages. As far as I’m concerned, you already have a good bond.” Sanguine paused to look them both in the eye, one by one. “It would be best for you to mark each other.”

 

Miraak felt his muscles go tight. No, no no.

“Wonderfully ambiguous,” Tharya said, “do I have to spit on him? Absorb his soul? What do you mean?” He felt that she knew already, and was only trying to work her way out of it, but her humor made the air heavier. Sucked the oxygen from his lungs.  
“As in... _mark_ each other.” Sanguine made a vague gesture with his hands, as if he was rolling dough. "Little love bite should do the trick.” Tharya paled.

“That aside,” she cleared her throat, “what will happen to our souls?”

“Well, if all goes according to plan, you should be free. You won’t be bound to Hermaeus Mora.”

“But...”

“You won’t be bound to each other, either.”

She didn’t say anything after that. Out of the corner of his peripheral he watched her shift and glance to him. Without another word, she stalked out of the clearing, disappearing down the dark path.

“Anything else would be temporary,” the Prince reasoned, “as far as I can tell. You’re both alive, you will be for a long while, even if you don’t stick around.”  
“And what happens after we die, _deyra_?”

The man opposite him shrugged.  
“That’s out of my hands.” Miraak’s hands fisted and uncurled at his sides. The more he thought about the magic involved, the more Sanguine’s solution made sense. Marking each other would insure them for a lifetime. Decades of safety, even if he didn’t remain in Skyrim. Or Tamriel. He could go back to Atmora. Or even Solstheim; find a different name and seclude himself in with the Skaal. The truest Nords of the Fourth Era besides himself. Find Vahlok’s remains. There was little doubt in his head that the Jailor was aware of his presence on Nirn, of his fellow Dragon Priest walking the earth as flesh and blood again. When he looked up Sanguine had vanished, and the forest path called out to him.

 

The trees were dense, allowing only thin shafts of moonlight through the canopy. Just enough for him to find each stepping stone. His _dov_ was crowing something unknown to him, a need for something, a requirement he had yet to fulfill. The sound of cascading water soon met his ears, and the forest spit him out at the bottom of a bluff. A rushing waterfall began high overhead and fell down the cliffside, emptying itself into a large pond. On the edge of the pond, the Last Dragonborn had taken off her boots and put her feet in the water.

 

No longer entirely sure of his own actions, he walked over to her, slid his boots off as well and sat on the grass. She didn’t move away, but she didn’t say anything either. The water felt good around his ankles. Clean, natural, cool. Real. He didn’t know how long they sat in silence, with only the waterfall across the pond. Finally, she spoke. His _dov_ hardly paid attention.  
“I’m sure you’re not up to this.”

Miraak disregarded her words, twisting to his side and planting his hands on the grass beside her. Without a second thought, he reached up to push her hair away from her face, tracing the ridge of her ear.

  
After a long stare her eyes closed and she allowed herself the small liberty of pressing her cheek against his palm. He felt every muscle loosen. His sigh mixed somewhere with an exasperated groan, breath hitting her face. She was...willing. Always so dutiful, always so ready to execute even the biggest risks. His motion was not his own, but the roar of his _dov_ had reached an almost unbearable pitch.  
“It will save us, _ahtlahzey_ ,” he murmured, lips moving slowly to form words as clear eyes flickered open to meet him, “I will do anything to save us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY B U T if tharya's journey as LDB was a movie/tv show, the soundtrack would be as follows:
> 
> finding out she's dragonborn - i don't feel like dancin' by the scissor sisters (groovy song about not wanting to do anything)  
> killing alduin - battle without honor or humanity (cool shots of her and all the nord heroes swag walking out of the hall)  
> battling miraak - rock you like a hurricane (because they're both too badass)  
> battling lord harkon - here comes the sun (with all other sound muted and hilarious shots of her and miraak getting slapped around like ragdolls)


	6. Hermaeus Mora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scary chapter ahead! read at your own risk!  
> also i actually wrote this chapter a long time ago (before i even wrote Apocrypha) as just a separate thing, so the style/voice may sound a little different. i'm definitely not amazing at writing smut but like, i tried? expect minor revisions as always?

Her hands found his jaw and then his cheeks, pulling his mouth back to hers. He hadn’t kissed someone in centuries. He hadn’t _been kissed_ in centuries. Mora had brought him unknowing girls a few times, early on to keep his allegiance. _Mir._ He had found no quarrel with it. But now there was another voice to the _lovaas_ , not just his soul but hers. A dusty melody from a time long forgotten. Her kiss was more caress than anything else, protective but gentle, reassuring but commanding. Hands found her sides and he let them move; in his mind, the towel was falling away all over again. Lean muscle, soft spots, the near unnoticeable bump of a scar. She made him weak and empowered at the same time, dazed but alert.

 

Alert enough to feel the first tentacles slide around his torso.

 

When he opened his eyes, the night was gone. The moon had been painted over by acidic, vomit-green skies, the waterfall had dried up.  
“No,” he breathed, “ _nid._ No, no, no!”

“Hush now, my pet.”

“ _No!_ ” Tendrils around his wrists yanked his arms behind him, and more slid tightly over his ankles. Just a second ago it had been perfect, unmistakably pristine. Now it was plunged into the mud. Tharya was still standing, searching her person for the staff. It was still in the Grove. There was no defending themselves now.

 

Mora yanked him downwards, to his knees, and then back. His neck strained to keep his head from lolling backwards. He found the Last Dragonborn’s gaze, scared and furious.  
“What do you want, Mora?!”  
“The same things you desire, Dragonborn.”

“Which is?” One slimy green appendage shot out from the amorphous blob of eyes and black plasma to make a flourishing gesture to Miraak.

 

“You will, hnmm, touch him.” Hermaeus Mora’s tentacle tightened around Miraak’s wrists, pulling his arms further back behind him. He would show no signs; no fear; no anguish. Mora would get nothing from him. “You are, after all, his, Last Dragonborn. You will...hmm, pleasure him. It has been too long since I have had any...amusement without my, hmmm, pet here.”

Briefly her clear eyes found his, but he was the first to avert his gaze. She was quick to pick up on the things Mora had put him through. Too quick.

“You will get nothing from me, slimy bastard.” She said defiantly. A smile was called into his heart but not his lips. No emotion; nothing for Mora. Another tentacle appeared, waving around Miraak before it shot for his mouth, forcing his unsuspecting lips open and cramming itself down his throat.

She shifted, fists tightening.

“You will pleasure him,” Hermaeus Mora repeated. The tentacle swelled in the First Dragonborn’s mouth; he gagged and gargled around it, dusky skin going red. “Or, hmm, I will take him back.”

Miraak tried to swallow, feeling his throat close around the appendage.

“And this is your final condition?” She said, voice hard as stone. “Because I swear to Talos, Sanguine will not be happy if-“

“My last condition.” Hermaeus boomed. A third tentacle pressed itself with unsettling gentleness beneath Miraak’s robes, slowly undoing them. They fell open on his chest, exposing the three-prong scar that fell across his skin. He gagged again. Not this, please Akatosh not this, he couldn’t endure this.

“You’ll get rid of these cursed marks?”  
“Of course, Dragonborn. Sanguine has told you they are indestructible, no doubt. But I can, hmm, remove them.” Miraak shook his head violently, words dying as muffled grunts before they could get out. The tentacle swelled. He went silent.

 

His shoulders jerked in an attempt to get away. The tentacle swelled again and he thought maybe he’d faint from lack of air. But just as he was beginning to see black, Hermaeus retreated from his throat, leaving a sickly feeling coating his windpipe.

Tharya moved forward, her robes swishing quietly and familiarly with the movement.

“Sanguine will figure it out.” She murmured, hesitantly reaching for his robes. He doubted that with every fiber of his soul; Sanguine had no power here, not in another prince's plane of Oblivion. Mora’s tentacles carefully maneuvered the fabric off his shoulders without letting go of his wrists. Miraak said nothing. She placed a dangerous amount of faith in a Daedric Prince.

 

“Touch him.” Came the command. The First Dragonborn’s gaze, previously fixed on the infested green skies of Apocrypha, fell to the Last Dragonborn kneeling in front of him.

Her hands came to his stomach, first, cold fingers making him inhale. Then up his sides and his ribs, to his chest and shoulders. Each finger deftly avoided the scar. She placed a kiss over his ferociously beating heart. Massaging her digits into his bent shoulders, her lips moved with agonizing slowness up his throat. Somewhere along the way, her speed--or lack thereof--became comforting. Hermaeus Mora’s many eyes watched from above.

 

“ _Haalvut zey,_ ” he demanded quietly. “ _Kos mul._ ” Hatred filled his veins; he fell too easily back into Mora’s waiting grasp.

Mora laughed at his dovahzul demands. Tharya reeked of hesitation and uncertainty, but nevertheless she moved up to kiss him again. Some part of him appreciated her approach; fulfill the Prince’s requirements without making it more uncomfortable than it already was—but eventually he would grow tired of her slow approach and force them on. If not, he would violate them both and then kill them.

Miraak tried to turn his head to nuzzle his nose into her hair, nipping at her ear. His fingers flexed. Despite the circumstances, their shared softness was...new.

She shifted forward and then moved to straddle him, her pelvis nestled against his. Still occupied with his neck, she pressed herself against his groin, eliciting a half-forced low groan from his chest. “ _Ontzos_.” Following his guideline, she rocked against him again, and again, before falling into a grinding rhythm against his crotch. His knees parted to allow more direct friction.

 

Miraak had no realization of how relaxed he had become until her hands left the confines of his shoulders to come into his hair, fisting strands. He realized she was avoiding his lips, avoiding having to _kiss_ him, and for a moment he swelled with shame. Mora was never wrong about him being undesirable, was he? Even after he'd been saved from Apocrypha he had nothing to show for it.

So enveloped was he with the little things, he didn’t notice when two more of Mora’s tentacles slid down his body into the bottom half of his robes. He did notice when they found his half-hard cock and squeezed.

 

Miraak tried to rip his face away but Tharya held him there; after a moment, he realized it was for his own good. Instead he grunted--almost a whine but he would never allow that in Mora's presence--and let his face fall into the crook of her neck. Her fingertips rubbed the back of his head. Mora stroked his length with unsettling delicacy, parting his slit momentarily with a tentacle. Unable to hold himself back, the First Dragonborn roared.

“You have not screamed for me in, hmm, centuries, _Miraak_.” Hermaeus Mora said from above, his name thick and dripping with tension on the Prince’s nonexistent lips. Each letter enunciated with conviction, each syllable stinging. Tharya was lifted away for a moment, whether by her own free will or against it he didn’t know. He clenched his eyes closed as Mora fondled him, feeling all the blood in his body rush downwards.

“Take him.” Mora commanded, and with a dreadful _riiiiiip_ of cloth Miraak’s robes were torn off and tossed aside. Those had been _his,_ dammit, his College robes, he made them his own. Momentary shame filled his veins. He didn’t think he’d ever have to be like this—naked as the day he was born—in front of the Prince again. Evidently he was wrong.

There was a new sensation on his cock that made his eyes go open, staring directly down the landscape of his own body. Mora had taken off her robes and discarded them as well, placed her back between his thighs. He watched just as his tip disappeared past her lips. A strangled moan tore through him. Black eyes widened. The height and strength of Atmorans had been diluted through the ages, lost to time for the most part. No Fourth Era Nord...

He rolled his hips forward into her mouth with gentle encouragement. He was Atmoran, a foot above her, broad and muscled, long and thick in all the right places. He could hardly imagine her trouble taking him. It would be brutal.

 

If not between her legs, there was no doubt in his mind she couldn’t take him in her mouth.

“ _Zos, dii hes_.” He rolled his hips upwards again. Her nails dug into his thighs as a warning. If they were to survive this, she needed more. That he knew. Now he had to choose between her comfort or her survival. They fell into a rhythm of him thrusting up while she came down, an unsteady compromise. For a moment he seemed to forget they were in Apocrypha, watching her lips on his cock through half-lidded eyes. He groaned deep in his chest.

“You are too big for her, Miraak,” Hermaeus’ voice seemed to be right beside his ear. The First Dragonborn jumped to alertness; the Last Dragonborn gagged on his sudden movement. “Allow me to, hmmm, assist.”

“No.” Miraak croaked, his throat dry. The tentacles that had fallen silent around his length now wrapped around Tharya, and in one quick movement forced her head down farther than it had been previously. Miraak felt fire bubble in his veins. He would not let Mora do this to her. Not in front of him, not here, not ever. The power of a Shout rose from his stomach, a guttural first word coming out:

“Yol-“ Mora cut him off by cramming a slick appendage into his mouth again. The fire died on his lips, sparked out of existence. The only sound he could hear was his heart beating like a war drum in his ears, hammering in his chest. He could feel Tharya’s forced deepthroating of his length, swear her nose brushed his lower stomach twice. He could feel her throat clench every time. He could feel Mora’s tentacle now tightening on his wrist, tightening on the base of his length, swelling in his mouth. It became unbearable. He writhed in vain to get the Prince away from him, regretting the consequences it had on Tharya's mouth. Everything tightened again; he went stoic.

 

And then, everything dropped away.

Once he regained his hearing, settled his heart, the first thing to reach his ears was her ragged, heavy breathing. His stomach turned at the thought of what Mora had been doing to them both; at the fact that he had allowed it to happen. Arms now somehow free, Miraak sat up, pulling her into his limbs from where she had slumped into his thigh.

“Come,” he murmured into her hair, wrapping her legs and arms around his torso, “ _hi los tahriik_.” Tharya’s head fell limply into the crook of his neck, her chest heaving against his. Those three words felt like a filthy lie to him, but it was something they both needed to hear. She was shaking. What had started in their control had ended in the hands of another, and he was fairly certain this was hardly the end.

When he glanced up to the sky, Hermaeus Mora was hovering.

The aching in his jaw and around his length was indescribably horrible, and the last shreds of power he had felt from his choked off Shout were fading. A feeling of dread replaced them. They were not finished.

“ _Vesey zey_ ,” he said a second time, finding the space between her eyebrows. She had no willpower to pour into her actions and thus let him kiss down to the corner of her lips, let him indulge in false safety for a moment. He kissed her burning throat, hands covering her breasts as he sucked gently at her skin. Her nails dragged slowly across his back.

 

His dread was confirmed when he felt a tentacle slide around his neck, not squeezing but pulling just enough to make him lie down again, his shoulder blades pressed to the floor of Apocrypha. He urged her down with him. Miraak’s hands wandered on her body, rubbing small circles into her sides and cupping her ass, gliding over her thighs. A second tentacle took Tharya’s hand away from him and brought it down his body to his cock. Mora was silent, but he was preparing them. Miraak took her nipple in his mouth, surrounding it with his tongue while he treated the other with his fingers. His thighs fell back open as she stroked him back into hardness. Talos, they weren’t done. He wanted to be done.

Still silent, Mora pulled Tharya away from him and pulled his length up, positioning them vertical. Miraak’s eyes widened and fell immediately to the Last Dragonborn’s exhausted features.

“ _Zu’u los krosis_.”

 

Mora slammed her down onto Miraak’s length and she screamed—the first time he’d heard her do that—fingernails clawing down his torso, leaving furious rivers of red. Now her fingers had no regard for the three-pronged scar, tearing at it all the same.

The Daedric Prince began laughing maniacally as he forced her to ride him, taking every inch in and out with each movement. Her moans were pained and some turned into wails of agony at the brutal pace. She was being ripped apart. He tried to comfort her as best he could, wrapping his arms tight around her, massaging the underside of her thighs. It was useless. He was useless. He had been useless for four thousand years and now, he could do nothing for the woman who had given him his life back, nothing for the woman who had saved him.

She screamed again and her body arched painfully, just for a moment slowing Mora’s pace. Her grip on his shoulders was unbelievably strong, thumbs digging into the dip of his collarbones. Her rhythm was interrupted by something. It was choppy now, uncertain of which way to move. When she crumpled against his chest again, she was shaking against him like a tree in a storm. Worse than before.

“Miraak,” she whimpered, the motion of her body no longer her own, “ _drun nii laat_.” The first time she had truly said his name, not a call for his attention but a plea for his being. Not as he’d imagined it. Not as he’d wanted it.

 

He gave no reply, focusing only on his length inside her, penetrating deep every time. She'd hardly said his name before. He flexed his hips to meet her every time she came down, and rolled them to stay with her upwards motion. Less thrusting on Mora’s part if he moved with her. It was tedious and not always successful, but it was his only chance.

He didn’t know how long it was until he came, only that it was a half-forced climax and his neck was wet with tears that weren’t his own. Her taut muscles fell limp when Mora exited her, like a rag on his chest. The Daedric Prince said something to him in Dovahzul, something about power and Sanguine, and an oath. Something that he didn’t listen to and didn’t register.

Miraak remembered the first glow of a healing spell reaching his fingertips, pressing it to her spine and her entire frame jerking at the touch. He remembered sitting up as the tentacles fell away and cradling her close to him, rubbing the back of her neck. He remembered Hermaeus Mora’s wretched form retreating and disappearing altogether, and not long after, the world of Apocrypha fell away from them. He remembered the grass beneath him, the sound of a waterfall, and Sanguine's worried voice.

 

And as she cried against him the skin on his right shoulder started to burn. It was painful, akin to dragonfire, but he said nothing. By the way her fists curled against his chest, she felt it too.

His black eyes found the Daedric Prince standing a few yards away, features etched with distress. He felt filthy. _I will do anything to save us_. Meaningless words, empty promises.

"This is your fault."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lovaas - song  
> nid - no  
> haalvut zey, kos mul - touch me, be strong  
> ontzos - again  
> zos, dii hes - more, my (love/darling/sweet)  
> hi los tahriik - you are safe  
> vesey vey - kiss me  
> zu'u los krosis - i am sorry  
> drun nii laat - make it stop  
> tons of dovahzul in this chapter, my apologies (i tried to make it go chronologically)


	7. The Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty lame chapter concerning action and stuff, so my apologies :) we're almost nearing the end! feel free to leave more skyrim ideas below! i'm thinking of doing a dragon age piece but i've been so busy i haven't been able to play xbox in forever!

_You thought she saved you, Miraak? How quaint._

He rolled over, twisting the sheets around his legs.

_No one can ever save you._

He knew that. He had accepted that a long time ago.

_You know that’s not true, mul gein._

His eyes felt incredibly dry when he opened them, fisting the sheets. The light was blinding for a second, but adjusted the more he blinked. Around them were towering trees, above a misty dark sky with lazy winking stars. Unexpected fingers dove into his hair, massaging his scalp. Gods, this woman would be the death of him. 

Miraak groaned into the pillow.

“ _Ahtlahzey."_

“You guessed it.”

 

Her voice had hardly lost its edge or its charm, but something behind it was missing. The Dragon Priest opened his eyes, meeting only the pillow and the image of the Last Dragonborn slouched on the furniture beside him, a book tucked between her fingers. If he had the energy, his spine would’ve bristled. He wanted nothing to do with books anymore.

The fabric he’d curled his fist into was actually her shirt, the first layer beneath the grey cloak that was missing. Either way, he didn’t retract it. Something told him he should've, but he couldn't bring himself to. All he wanted was to be millions of miles away but also as close as possible--both for the same reason. To protect her. She was warm, her presence assuring.   
“Z _u’u los krosis._ ”

“If you apologize again, I’m going to hit you with this.” Her fingertips rounded his ear. “I should be thanking you.”  
“That is just as unnecessary, _ahtlazhey_.”  _Thanking_ him? What for? Ruining her life?   
“No,” she traced down his jawline, “ _hii drun zu’u tahriik._ ” _You made me safe_. He had a hard time believing that.

“If that is your meaning of _tahriik_ , you are deranged, _ahtlahzey_.” For the first time, she laughed. He scoffed against the fabric but a stifled smirk touched his features.

 

Regardless, the feeling of dread hung in his chest. It made his breath catch in his throat, made his eyes close again. What he had done to her, what Mora had done. What Mora had _made_ him do. What Mora had made her do. Yet she had the courage, or the stupidity, to thank him. For what? For subjecting her to the same torture he had endured for thousands of years? For bringing her back to Apocrypha? Yet she had thanked him away, ignoring his protestations. The Last Dragonborn grew stronger every time he looked away. Perhaps he looked away too often.

 

"You've felt it, haven't you?"

She looked up. His own words surprised him, somewhat, coming from nowhere. But the question had been on his mind for so unbearably long. In light of recent events, he had to ask.

"The singing. You are Dragonborn, not merely dragonblood--you must feel it."

Miraak’s eyes opened again, fingers moving upwards to pry the volume from her hand.

" _Hin haal_ ," Miraak said quietly. Much gentler than his voice had been in recent memory--it almost didn't sound like him. Notably hesitant, the Last Dragonborn extended her hand. With mild reluctance he sat up, squeezing her fingers in his own. Even if she thanked him, he would apologize. She had done nothing to deserve such an experience. “I will do anything to save us, _ahtlahzey_ ,” he watched her eyes flicker up at that, letting the recognition seep in, “and I will not hurt you again.”

Tharya smiled weakly.

“It was not entirely your fault, _mul gein_.”  
  
“Not at all, in fact. There’s only one person to blame here.”

He knew that voice. Sanguine.

 

“Why are you here?” He grit out.

“I...asked him,” Tharya said soothingly, “I asked if he could get rid of the black in your eyes.” Miraak moved unwillingly away from the Last Dragonborn, pausing at the edge of the bed before standing. He hadn’t realized he was fully clothed, but was now grateful for it.

“And can you?”

“Yeah, yeah, Uncle Sanguine can fix your eyes. Just...don’t go back to Apocrypha.”  
Miraak grunted.  
“I have no intention.”  
“That may make it permanent—and some people can pull off black eyes, but it just makes you look like you want to eat everyone. Guess that’s the thing with dragon souls?”  
Tharya grinned, but Miraak did not give the Prince the satisfaction of a reaction.  
  
Sanguine took a last swig of ale before approaching him, his red and black face looking mildly concerned.  
“How long have you been in that place?”  
He didn’t want to answer, but he did.  
“Since the Merethic Era.”  
Sanguine gave a low whistle, shaking his head. Two thick fingers settled against his forehead.  
“This won’t be pleasant for either of us, my friend.” He warned. “This goes beyond healing. It’s...it’s more like...”  
“Drawing something out.”  
“Yes. Thank you, champion of mine.”  
  
Sanguine spread his feet a little more, closing his eyes.  
  
Miraak felt it slowly at first. It came with a ringing in his ears and pressure in his head. But then it grew louder, the pressure grew stronger, accompanied by fire coursing through his veins. Flashes of things, people, places he’d forgotten so long ago tore through him.  
  
_A baby. Wrapped in a tattered shawl, held close. Crying. Outside there were screams. And then the baby in the grass, enveloped by a bright orange-blue energy. Encased._  
_A dragon soul._  
_Then the baby was a toddler, then a child, never once turning to reveal his eyes. Dark skinned, hair that never seemed to be tame. Flashes of a young Dragon Priest picking him up. A pair of lips moving, speaking a name:_ **_Miraak._  ** _The name his mother had gifted to him._  
_The Dragon Priest grew older and the child grew stronger, taller, bigger, better. Magic around his fingertips. The child was no more. Made a Dragon Priest. Elected First Mage. A friend made a brother. The man was born. Star Charts, dragonfire, blood on the ground. Gone. Tentacles in a black mass, rectangular pupils. A Black Book. An angry friend—Vahlok. The first dragon skeleton. The second soul. Twenty more dragon skulls. Hanged remains. Fire burning high in the night, the dome of a temple collapsing. Sorrow. Anger. Vengeance. The face of a friend turned foe. The splitting of land, the roaring of the sea as a new island was born. Ripping of skin, tearing, breaking, bleeding. The snow began to fall. A friend with no regrets, bringing the ethereal blade down, and then tentacles, so thick he couldn’t see through them, enveloping him like the tattered shawl and the baby, sucking him in, bringing him back._  
  
Sanguine planted his heels in the ground. Whoever this guy was, Hermaeus Mora would have a hard time letting him go.  
  
_Four thousand years. The First Dragonborn forgotten; the Last Dragonborn recognized. A war won. Alduin slayed—or so they think. The Throat of the World. Windhelm. A boat. The ash of Solstheim. The call of the chant. The theft of a soul. A pair of lips moving, speaking a name:_ **_Miraak_** _. Tentacles in a black mass, rectangular pupils. A Black Book. Lightning. Seekers. A dragon. A man, tall and strong and big and better. But tired. Snow, Skaal, a Black Book. Tentacles that kill. A fight. Spit out by the pages, the Last Dragonborn strikes a bargain in what he thinks are his last breaths. Saved. Healed. Held. Rescued. Enchant the staff. He drags the Last Dragonborn out. The ash meets him. He is free._  
  
“Meridia’s glowing tits,” Sanguine snapped, staggering back, “Hermaeus Mora is carved into him.”  
Miraak swayed for a moment, the pressure exploding in his inner ears and the fire snuffed out all too quickly. He let gravity take him down.  
Tharya tried desperately to catch the falling Dragon Priest, finding it best to go down with him. Her hands were merely a guide. She pulled his head into her lap, watching as he groaned, half-conscious.  
“I wouldn’t have advised trying to catch a two hundred thirty four pound man, either,” Sanguine muttered as he sat, “seriously, kid, when did you pull him out of? He’s so tall.”  
“He’s Atmoran,” Tharya replied. “And what do you mean, is?”  
“Was,” Sanguine corrected himself with an exasperated sigh. “Four thousand years of Mora...ick.”  
“It’s gone?”  
“As far as I can tell.”  
  
“ _Dii klov_...gods,” a third voice moaned. Miraak slowly drew his hands up to his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _Nii pah ahraan_.”  
“I don’t know what language that is, but I’ll assume he’s thanking me.”  
“He said everything hurts,” Tharya said dismissively, pulling the Priest’s fingers away. “Miraak?”  
“I’ll still never completely understand where you found a Dragon Priest.” Sanguine groaned.  
  
In a series of twitches, his digits curled around her palm. His head was cushioned but the rest of his body was on the ground, unconscious. He was barely holding it together up top. There was a certain weight missing, a certain something gone. He blinked a few times—gods, it was bright in here. Or was it? Maybe his eyes had been black for so long, he’d—  
His eyes.  
The Last Dragonborn was staring down at him with interest. To his left, Sanguine was peering forward.  
His eyes.  
  
The color of dragonfire, someone had once told him. A sunset on the northern seas. Liquid gold with a tint of blood. For a moment he touched his nose, hoping maybe that scar was gone—it was not. That was a minor disappointment. His eyes had been restored to him and his body...felt strangely like his own. His dov soul seemed content, wrapped like a loyal dog around his heart instead of ferociously chewing it up or guarding it. He was his own again, for the first time in four thousand years.  
Above him, Tharya’s blurred face smiled.  
“ _Ahtlahzey_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hin haal - your hand  
> dii klov - my head  
> nii pah ahraan - it all hurts


	8. Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter? yep. exciting? nope. epilogue coming out soon? yep. miraak in dark purple robes like the ones he wore in the trailers? yep.

“These robes are... _insulting._ ”

“Stop complaining.” Tharya glanced up as Miraak emerged from behind the wall. “Nothing could be worse than the dusty shit-colored ones you’ve been wearing for four thousand years.”

The Dragon Priest grimaced, but part of him knew she was right. The Altmer mage had apparently taken it upon herself to sew him new robes, without even knowing who he was. She had salvaged his pauldrons and kept the golden zig-zag thread pattern, but the cloth was a completely new color. Deep, rich purple, almost mistakable for black if it wasn’t for the light. He could feel each layer; nothing was missing. The gloves and gauntlets were stiff, and the boots creaked when he moved. They would take some breaking in. It all seemed more...fitted than his original robes, hugging his shoulders and forearms a little more. But the outer robe was no longer torn and shredded at the waist.

 

Somehow, it added to his wholeness.

 

“We should go downstairs, if you’re done staring at yourself.” The Last Dragonborn tapped her spear against the stone floor. “I have no idea how much time passed here while we were away.” Her voice hesitated just enough before _away_ . It easily sold her out. It made his jaw twitch, too— _away_ was something he wished had never happened.

“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” Miraak called, moving across the room. Her attention slid to him. “I-“

“I heard your apology the first time,” the words were edgy but her voice was sincere. Tharya smiled slowly at him, reaching for his hand after a second. “I appreciate it, _mul gein."_

 

* * *

 

 

“You should not have gone through the archmage’s personal belongings, Faralda!”  
“I did _not!_ I saw the mask on the table. I thought I recognized it so I brought it to Urag.”   
“We all know that’s a lie.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Urag’s rumbly voice cut through the arguing. “This human the archmage brought with her—he isn’t from this time period.”

 

Tharya paused at the large archway to the lecture hall.  
“I hope you have evidence for that accusation, Urag.”

The entirety of the mages jolted upright, turning to their archmage and the man beside her.  
“I do,” the Orc grunted. He grabbed a paper from Mirabelle’s hand and held it up, stalking towards Miraak.

“You.” The Orc grunted, shoving it forward, “This is you. Your name is Miraak. You were a Dragon Priest on Solstheim-“

“The one who rebelled.” Onmund cut in. “You were the First Dragonborn! You cut down the dragons. They had something to fear in you; not only did you kill them, you took their souls. You helped weaken the Dragon Cult immensely.”

Miraak slowly nodded, gold eyes examining the charcoal drawing of himself. Something in his face was off, but for the most part he was there. Whoever had drawn this had some kind of representation.

“I...did.”

“You should all be honored to be in his presence! One of the most powerful mages that ever lived, without a shadow of a doubt.” Onmund reached for his hand and shook it with an abundance of enthusiasm. “And the archmage brought him back to us. The second most powerful mage!”

Miraak felt a grin split his features. He half-turned to the Last Dragonborn, arm still jiggling in Onmund’s grip.

“Second to one, _ahtlahzey_.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Arrogant bastard.”

 

Faralda advanced slowly.  
“So...you are a Dragon Priest?”

Miraak wrestled his hand from Onmund’s grip before nodding.  
“And a Dragonborn?”

“ _Geh_. Did you draw this, _kul_?” Onmund’s eyes went wide before he nodded.   
“I went on an expedition to Labyrinthian earlier this year, the city you called--”   
“Bromjunaar.”

“Yes--yes! There were magnificent carvings on the wall of the Dragon Priests traveling to the Labyrinthian to pay tribute to the Dragon Cult. I recorded all my findings, and I made these sketches of all the Priests I found carvings of.” Onmund took the paper gingerly from Miraak’s fingers. “Yours was...destroyed,” he said uncertainly, “I put some of the shards together and tried as best I could to fill in the missing aspects of your face and garb.” His eyes flicked between the man and the drawing.  
  
“Archmage,” Mirabelle gestured Tharya aside, “while we have you, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss.” She glanced around the lecture hall. “The town was recently attacked by some strange...creatures.”   
“Let me guess: same as the one that we killed here.”   
“Yes, but more of them. And they’re blaming us for it.”

“Of course they are.” Tharya sighed, tapping her fingers against her staff.  
“It’s been getting worse, Archmage. Ever since you left-”   
“I’ll talk to them.”

 

Tharya tugged Miraak away from Onmund’s pestering, pulling him towards the door.  
“I need some fact-checking, _mul gein_.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Legend says, in your fight with Vahlok, you split land. Created the island of Solstheim--is that true?”   
Miraak frowned slowly. He remembered the sound it had made; the deafening _crrraack_ of Nirn splitting, chunks of it falling into the aggravated sea.   
“That is true, _ahtlahzey,_ but I don’t understand why you’re asking.”   
“Some time ago, a vicious storm came down from the north. Took half of Winterhold into the water,” she gestured vaguely outside, “that’s all those ruined houses you saw.”

“So what is your question, _ahtlahzey_?”

She only smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

The air in Winterhold had grown colder and more bitter. A fresh dusting of snow covered everything, including the people grouped outside the College doors. They circled the base of Shalidor’s statue, standing in the shadow of his fanned-out cloak. Tharya approached them warily, until one of them looked up and spotted her moving towards them.  
“The archmage!” Instantly the crowd stood. Though their numbers were small, Miraak’s grip remained on his staff. They all lunged forward to envelop Tharya and himself, shouting all at once their questions. What were those things? Had the College summoned them? Did the mages have anything to do with it? Would they be coming back?

“Please, please! Listen to me,” she waved her hands in an attempt to quiet them, “I don’t know what those creatures were. One of them attacked the College as well, and sent myself and my...associate here into a plane of Oblivion.” The crowd settled into a shocked silence, forgetting their anger for just a moment.  
“As you can see, we escaped.” Hers was the only chuckle. “The College had nothing to do with it.” After a moment of dread silence, they erupted again, squeezing in closer and closer.

 

Miraak moved in as well, discreetly wrapping his gloved fingers around the Last Dragonborn’s arm.  
“Hold on, hold _on!_ I’m telling you, the College has nothing to do with it. And,” she gestured to Miraak, “I have a very powerful mage with me-”   
“Get him _gone!_ ”   
“We don’t want any more mages!”   
“-who can restore the bluffs.”

Now, they were so silent he could hear the beating of his own heart in his ears.

 

_Gods, what had he gotten himself into?_


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a hint of things to come o.o  
> thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos and comments! i appreciate it so so much. special thanks to naboogirl for even thinking of this idea?? feel free to leave any thoughts you have about the piece or ideas for future tharyaak stuff you'd like to see!

Her eyes fell across the shimmering snow, now stretching farther than she could ever remember. Half of Winterhold had been restored, taken from the bottom of the sea and secured back into place. She remembered the pure awe on each and every one of their faces as the land was lifted, their murmurs of excitement as it crashed back into place against the existing cliff face. No one had cheered, lifted their voice in praise or song, but the look on their faces had been enough. Their land was returned to them, and all by magic.

Miraak had hardly broken a sweat pulling it all up from the sea; it had been difficult, since last time he broke land it had been with the help of another, equally as powerful Dragon Priest. But he tried and out it came, connecting once again to its lost foundation.

 

She wouldn’t say she was impressed, but it had been...impressive.

 

“This letter came for you while you were on Solstheim, archmage.” The voice belonged to Mirabelle. Tharya turned, running her fingers through her hair. “The courier said it was from an old friend? Big Orc, in brown armor. Very...insistent.” Mirabelle extended the letter to her, still sealed. The parchment was thick. Tharya tried to think of people she referred to as  _ old friends; _ the list was small. Very small.   
“This came when?”

“Not long after you left.”

Mirabelle turned just as Miraak entered, pausing at the doorway to let her by. His golden gaze fell out over the bluffs as well, a touch of confidence in his brow, as if he was admiring his handiwork. The First Dragonborn leaned against the wall across from her, the light from the window filtering in between them.   
" _Aan pel?_ ”

She shrugged, tugging the wax seal apart and unfolding the paper. Miraak’s eyes remained on her, whether out of interest in the letter or something else she didn’t know.   
“What does it say,  _ ahtlahzey _ ?” He asked once she let it down, chewing her bottom lip. The Last Dragonborn looked at him for a moment, seemingly reluctant. Then she folded the letter again.   
  
“Do you know anything about the Dawnguard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aan pel - a letter/message?
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who helped and read and supported me!! i love you all :D

**Author's Note:**

> i like the idea of miraak being a lot more in touch with his dov/dragon side once getting out of apocrypha, with the possibility that hermaeus mora's influence suppressed it somehow? idk. as usual, comments and kudos are lovely, and hopefully chapter two and more exciting stuff soon!
> 
> pruzah vulon - good night  
> los hi drehlaan? - are you done?


End file.
